


A Strange Sort of Intimacy

by Sexxica



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Shot, Confrontations, Exhibitionism, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Alternating, Photographs, Pictures, Private Investigators, Rentboys, Roughness, Sexting, Video Cameras, Voyeurism, Watching, Webcams, private investigator john, sherlock with a rentboy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4337888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexxica/pseuds/Sexxica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The job was supposed to be simple; tail the man, set up surveillance, photograph and record his movements for an entire month.  Nothing John hadn't done before.  Nothing John wouldn't do again if the money was there.  But, this target turns out to be something much, much more than a simple job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More tags will be added as chapters are updated!

The job was supposed to be simple; tail the man, set up surveillance, photograph and record his movements for an entire month.  Who did he associate with?  What were his habits?  Where did he spend his time?  John Watson didn’t know why, and he didn’t much care.  His nameless client was paying him triple plus expenses and that was enough to get him out of his dingy bedsit for the foreseeable future, and that was reason enough for him. 

It took some time to set up, to rent a flat in the opposite building with good sightlines, stock it with ready meals and tinned things and coffee so he wouldn’t need to get groceries too often.  This was basically a 24-hour job for a solid month.  He needed to be prepared.  John kept all his receipts in a slim black folder organized by type, then date.  Tidy.  Orderly.  The same way he kept the temporary flat. 

There was really only one room he would be using anyway - the front one where he placed a dining room chair (hard, poor support, it would keep him awake), and his tripod and camera with a telephoto lens.  He hooked it right into his laptop for quick downloading.  His client had requested daily updates consisting of email summaries of activity and any relevant photos attached.  At the end of the month he was to package his expenses and drop them off at a previously agreed upon location, then destroy all the photos.  No copies, nothing printed, and the money would be in his bank account within the week.  

It seemed to be a dream job, despite the mystery, but John tried hard not to think too much on that.  His advance had cleared and as far as he was concerned, that was assurance enough that the job was legit - or at least the money would be.  What he did skirted the bounds of legality at the best of times, so who was he to question why exactly his client needed such close surveillance on whoever this man was.

The first two days on the job and John was already concerned that he had somehow gotten the description of his target wrong, or that he had already disappeared for whatever reason.  More than 48 hours had passed when finally, at three in the bloody morning,  _ someone  _ matching the description he had been given stormed through the front door of 221B Baker Street.  John hit the shutter on his camera and clicked off a few photos, and again when a light went on in the flat across the street and the man appeared in the window. 

John thought maybe he was finally going to get the chance to catch more than a couple minutes of shut-eye - that his mark would retreat to the back of the flat where he was out of John’s sight, and John could sleep for just a little while.  But that did not appear to be the case.  More lights went on in the flat and the man disappeared briefly, only to reappear in what seemed to be his pyjamas and a dressing gown.  He then proceeded to pace the expanse of the front room in total disregard for the furniture.

John laughed.  It started as a surprised chuckle, but quickly grew to a high, near-uncontrollable giggle that brought tears to his eyes.  This man was ridiculous.  It was three in the morning and he was pacing his flat, stalking overtop of the furniture like some sort of overgrown cat.  John snapped a few more pictures.

Eventually the man stopped mid-stride and grabbed his mobile off the table in front of the windows, tapping out something quickly, his head bowed.  Again, John let his shutter click away, no detail was too small or insignificant on a job like this.  John thought that maybe now the man would go to bed, but instead he merely flopped down on the sofa.  John couldn’t be sure, but it  _ looked _ like he was perhaps sleeping.  

After ten minutes of no movement, not so much as a shift of position or reach for his nearby mobile, John thought he was safe to catch a few minutes of sleep.  He set his alarm to go off at ten minute intervals and lay down with the blanket and pillow he had laid out at the base of his tripod.  He had gotten very good at working with whatever amount of sleep he could snatch when things were quiet.  The army had helped with that.  The few little cat naps he could get would keep him functioning, and in one month he could buy himself a new bed, put it in a decent flat, and sleep for a solid week if he wanted to.

It would get easier as time went on too.  As John learned this man’s schedule, his habits.  Knowing approximately how long he would stay out of sight for each night, or morning, or whenever this guy slept or bathed, would give John the opportunity to do the same.  It had never been difficult before to set his rhythm to whoever he was meant to be keeping an eye on.

Each time John’s alarm beeped angrily at him he would pop his head up to check on the man across the street.  Hours went by and the man literally did not move.  If John hadn’t been able to clearly see the rise and fall of his chest, he would have worried that he was laying there dead.  But, when dawn rolled around, bathing the whole street in a pink glow, John watched as the man swung his feet down onto the floor and strode to the back of the flat.

Three hours later and the man strolled into the front room washed, and neatly dressed in a well-fitted suit.  He sat down in a large leather chair and pulled a computer into his lap, bringing up screens that John couldn’t quite make out, even with his lens.  In hardly any time at all though, the man was up and pulling on his coat and scarf.

“Shit! Shit shit shit!” John cursed to himself, pulling on his shoes and coat and grabbing his shoulder bag that had his other supplies in it.  There was another camera with a telephoto lens in there, but mostly when he was tailing someone he stuck to the basic unobtrusiveness of his mobile phone.  The pictures were of decent enough quality for what his employers needed usually, and it let him not stick out like a sore thumb.  He never did quite look the tourist or artsy part enough to comfortably have a huge camera slung ‘round his neck out in public.

Lucky for John, at this time of day the man had to walk out to the main road to get a cab, which meant John was able to catch up, then keep a comfortable distance all the way to the taxi stand.  He hung back long enough to not raise suspicions, then got his own cab.  He ignored the raised eyebrows at his request to “follow that cab” and gave no reason except a twenty pound note handed across the seat.  

They ended up at Bart’s Hospital, of all places.  “Huh,” John said aloud to himself as he stepped out of the cab.  It was a bit of an odd turn of events really, and John hadn’t been back to Bart’s since he’d left school there - which seemed like another lifetime all together.  

He’d managed to snap a few mobile phone photos of the man as he walked up to the building, his coat billowing out behind him.  John wasn’t sure he had actually seen a coat billow before, but this man accomplished it with ease.  His client had only asked John to see where he went, not necessarily what he did there, so John didn’t have to worry about going in anywhere that would be compromising.  He chose a bench a little ways off with a good view of the entrance and settled in to wait.  He had no idea how long the man would be inside.  

John stretched his aching limbs after hours sitting on a hard bench, and out of the corner of his eye caught sight of the man in the coat.  John was quick to grab his things and follow, getting in another cab, offering another bribe for there to be no questions, and following the man to New Scotland Yard this time.  John had to admit he was intrigued at this point.  He usually didn’t consider his targets much beyond what he needed to know to do his job well, but this man was  _ interesting _ .  

Interesting and more than a little difficult to keep eyes on, John found out over the next few days of no clear schedule, no clear job beyond the man’s frequent time spent at Bart’s, the Yard, and the confounding menagerie of people that showed up at his door.  He also barely ate, hardly slept, played the violin regardless of the hour, and seemed to talk to the human skull he kept on his mantle.  

Was he some kind of counsellor?  Usually the people who sat across from him in his cluttered front room seemed distressed in some way and left either more so, or looking relieved.  And there were all sorts.  Everything from people who looked like vagrants, to posh ones, and not to mention the fairly frequent appearance of police.  But there seemed to be some sort of lab set up in his kitchen, and John watched him perched over a microscope nearly as often as the man did the not-quite-sleeping thing where his eyes were closed and he didn’t move for stretches of time.

It wasn’t until John tailed the man to an active crime scene one day that he realized he must be some sort of detective or scientist or something or other that had to do with crime and catching criminals.  John had had to keep his distance on that one out of fear of being noticed as much by all the police hanging about as his target.  But, he watched from a distance.  Watched as the man stepped confidently around behind the police barrier, crouching and pointing and seeming to shout at anyone who dared open their mouths before storming off again.

It seemed the man garnered a kind of grudging respect, maybe even fear from a few of the people, but John had a bit of a harder time taking him seriously knowing the way he climbed all over the furniture, or curled up into himself on the sofa like a sulking child.  He smiled to himself at the thoughts. John knew that his job provided a strange sort of intimacy with the people he watched.  It was an interesting mix of knowing nothing about them, and knowing far too much.

But, there was nothing he could do about the nature of his work, so John just watched.  John watched and he photographed and he filed his receipts and he sent out his daily reports to his client and he did his job well.  But, John had a growing problem.  He was no longer just interested in this man, but  _ interested _ .  Of course John had realized right at first glance that the man was gorgeous, but John had surveilled beautiful people before without feeling the tight clench in his chest when they wandered into view sleep-rumpled and barely dressed.  He’d never felt so much like breaking his contract and running into a target in the street just to hear what their voice sounded like, let alone one as lucrative as this.

Everything about him was just so fascinating though, so graceful yet masculine, and seemingly so smart, but if it wasn’t for the housekeeper he saw come and go with trays of tea and food, John didn’t think the man would remember to eat at all.  John found himself taking photographs that would be of no use whatsoever to his employer - those long fingers poised on a violin bow, a stretch of taut neck muscles, a slim strip of skin where shirt and trousers separated.  John rebuilt the man piece by piece with each photo that he transferred to a flash drive, going completely against his contract, and honestly, his own common sense.

It was one night a little over a week into the job that John first saw the man naked.  He had wandered into the front room in his perennial dressing gown, but there had been no pyjamas underneath this time.  No ragged cotton shirt and loose, striped trousers to be found.  He settled himself on the sofa, sitting upright, legs spread, and shrugged out of the robe.  John’s mouth went dry as his finger twitched on the shutter and he felt his blood rush south.

The man was already half hard, and he rested his head on the back of the sofa as he wrapped his fingers around himself, tugging slowly as his other hand went up into his hair, gripping a handful of it.  John watched rapt through the viewscreen, letting the shutter click in quick succession as he took in the sight of the man’s lithe body, seeing his cock thicken and harden in his hand.

John felt a little mixed about watching the man have a wank in what he likely thought was the privacy of his own home, but he was the one who hadn’t closed the curtains.   _ Never _ closed the curtains, in fact.  John could have easily seen what he was doing even without the aid of his camera and lens.  And John couldn’t have looked away at this point if he tried.

So John did his job and watched, photographed, tried to ignore how rough his breathing was starting to sound.  The man across the street was panting too, and John could see the quick rise and fall of his chest and the way his mouth fell open.  John groaned quietly as the man stroked himself, rolling his hips up into his fist, his cheeks and chest starting to flush pink.  It was hot, god it was hot and John had to unzip his jeans if only to relieve some of the pressure on his own stiff prick.

Soon John could see through the display on his camera that the head of the man’s cock was shining with precome as he slicked his thumb through it.  John licked his lips, not even hearing the sound of the shutter as he took picture after picture, his other hand in his lap squeezing his own cock through his pants.  It was fine as long as he didn’t actually jerk off while watching the other man, right?  

It was a close thing for John not to though, as the man bit down on his bottom lip, his hand moving quicker, grip undoubtedly a little tighter too - it was nearly too much just to watch.  John wanted, well he wanted a lot of things, but right that moment he wanted to be on the floor between that man’s knees, moving his hand away and sinking his mouth down on that cock, sucking him off until he came.  Would he shout, or groan, or shudder in gasping silence?  Maybe he would call out John’s name.  No, that was a dangerous train of thought.  John could never meet this man.  Couldn’t risk ever revealing this job.  People … well, they didn’t usually take kindly to those that had been spying on them.

John watched as the man’s hips arched up off the couch, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips wrapped around an unheard ‘oh’, before he came.  Spurts of it landed on his chest and stomach, dripping down over his knuckles, and John groaned pitifully as he photographed it all.  He felt mad with need now, and was thankful his target got up after a moment and retreated back into the flat.

John rushed to free his erection, stroking himself with an urgent motion and coming into a handful of tissues in hardly any time at all.  He pictured the man the whole time.  The man who was so close and so very far away from him.  The way his muscles twitched when he came, the way his toes curled.  What must he sound like?  John’s imagination bet it was filthy - a pure sex sort of voice that could drive him crazy even in public.  He looked the sort, the gorgeous man that he was and with the way his throat worked when he swallowed.  

As John transferred a new series of photos to his secret flash drive, he thought for a moment that he was in this much too deep.  He had never gotten obsessed with a target before, had never broken a contract in any way just to keep something of them for himself.  He had never even wanted to before, but he couldn’t shake that there was  _ something  _ about this man, something special and exciting that he had never encountered before.  John was hooked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock knew.  Sherlock knew that he was being watched around the clock by the sandy-haired man who had moved into the flat across the street from his.  Someone lesser might not have noticed - the man was good.  He kept his distance and blended into crowds in a bland sort of way that made him infinitely forgettable.  Some non-threatening stranger in a mildly ugly jumper that you wouldn’t spare a second thought for, but Sherlock knew better.

Sherlock saw, the few times he actually caught a glimpse of the man, the confidence in his stride and the glint in his eye that made it clear that this man made a habit of danger, the thrill of the chase likely being why he chose such a strange and marginally legal profession.  And he  _ had _ to be a professional.  

It only took a bit of money and a vague directive to his homeless network to get a series of clear photos of the man conveniently emailed to him, and confirmation that he  _ was _ following Sherlock everywhere and not just camped out in the flat across the way keeping stock of who came and went.

Mycroft had never gone this far before.  It had to be Mycroft.  Who else would bother with the expense of a private investigator to follow Sherlock around in what was likely some misguided attempt at “caring.”  Sherlock only felt mildly insulted because he had clearly been off the drugs for ages; Lestrade wouldn’t let him work when he was high.  So, it had been a choice between the work and the drugs and of course the work had won.  

Sherlock hardly spared a thought for the fact he was being watched for the first few days.  Mycroft had tried before and as soon as he was satisfied that Sherlock was clean, the surveillance usually disappeared.  But, after a week, when he still had his sandy-haired little tail, Sherlock started to wonder just what was going on.

He flipped through the photos of the man his homeless network had sent and thought.  He wasn’t bad to look at - compact and no doubt stronger than he looked, ex-military for sure, the jumpers were all a bit tragic, but his jeans fit him well.  Very well.  He ticked quite a few boxes on the ‘things Sherlock finds appealing’ list, so it was a shame that Sherlock was going to have to get him off the job, however he could.

And there was one surefire way to get Mycroft’s spies off his case, and it was as simple as a little bit of sex.  Or masturbation as the case may be, because sex was generally a bit tedious.  Not the sex itself, but the finding of a suitable partner and having to pretend to be a charming human being for an extended length of time that was the tedious part.  But, generally once Mycroft caught an eyeful he pulled whoever he had hired as fast as was humanly possible.

So, Sherlock plunked himself down on the sofa where he shed his robe and had a wank.  It was just going to be a quick one, no nonsense, just a ploy to get Mycroft’s spy off his case, but he kept thinking about said spy.  About how he would be watching right then, taking photos, maybe even video, but he was definitely watching.  Would he be hard?  Maybe touch himself too?  Sherlock imagined that one would have to have at least a bit of a voyeuristic streak to want to be a private investigator or whatever he titled himself as.

Sherlock would have to reevaluate the fact that maybe he was a bit more of an exhibitionist than he previously thought, because the idea of that man across the street watching him was intensely arousing.  It was odd.  Usually Mycroft’s spies were horrible government types that Sherlock couldn’t forget fast enough, but this one was different.  Sherlock found himself thinking about how much of his military demeanor still stuck around, or just how much he liked to take charge.  Or maybe it was the other way around.  Sherlock could work with either.

He could also work with the image of that man’s arse in jeans, because that was a very nice image indeed.  He stroked himself slowly at first, enjoying the thrill he was getting thinking about the man watching him, wanting to make it good for him - worth the disk space.  He stretched his other arm up, fisting his hand in his hair and tugging a little, just because he liked it, and because it stretched his torso out in a way he knew was visually pleasing.

Usually masturbation was just a means to an end, a necessary release of tension, but Sherlock found himself wanting to draw this out as much as possible.  He arched his back and rolled his hips and felt pleasure build up low in his belly.  “Watch me,” he thought, “see how good I look.  I bet you wish you could touch me, could hear me, but you can’t.  You only get to watch.”  Sherlock let out a moan he didn’t realize was coming.     

Yes, this was good.  This was  _ exciting _ .  It was almost a shame that his spy would surely be gone the next day because Sherlock hadn’t been this turned on in ages.  He had to bite his lip to hold in the noises he suddenly wanted to make even though his spy would never hear them.  He wasn’t usually very vocal, but he also wasn’t usually being watched while he masturbated.

Sherlock tightened his grip, quickened his pace as he started to breathe hard, his orgasm nearing.  He wanted the man to see.  Wanted him to watch as he came all over himself and know that it was for him.

It wasn’t much longer before his orgasm came down fast and hard over him, making his hips lift off the couch as he gasped.  His whole body pulsed with it and his veins were all on fire with pleasure.  It took a few minutes before he came back to his senses, realizing that he hadn’t even brought anything with him to clean himself up.  He sighed and got up, going to the back of the house to tidy himself, out of sight of his spy.


	2. Chapter 2

The simple job that John thought he had signed up for was now considerably less so.  He was falling, hard and fast, head over heels in love with his target.  A man he had never met.  A stranger.  A stranger he knew intimate details about, yes, but a stranger nonetheless.  He tried desperately to ignore it, deny it, to stop the increasingly vivid fantasies he had about the man, the small, secret smiles he got watching him, but it wasn’t as if he could avoid him.  He couldn’t take a break from the job for a bit of distance to sort himself out.  He was stuck.

All John could do was keep working, keep watching the man as he lived his slightly mad life, and hope that once the job was over he could forget him.  But, part of him knew that was going to be impossible, especially as John stood, bent over, hands on his knees, and panting after having to run full tilt, yet again, to catch up to his long-limbed target.  The bastard was fast and John had nearly lost him this time, nearly.  He was certainly keeping John on his toes more than any target ever had before, and he was starting to see why he was getting paid so much.

It almost seemed sometimes like his target was trying to lose him, but John knew there was no way the man had realized that he was tailing him, he was too careful.  John doubted the man had ever even seen him come or go from the building across the way, doubted that he even knew what John looked like.  He was good at his job and no one had ever spotted him before. He had never been compromised.

There was only a little over a week left in the job.  Only one more week of chases that left him breathless, and glimpses of skin that left him more so.  John was sure that he could make it, especially since he hadn’t been forced to watch the man touch himself again.  It was bad enough that he still had the photos -- those long fingers wrapped around that cock, flushed cheekbones and parted lips, come shining on his skin.  John shuddered warmly even thinking of them.

It was absolutely torturous being so close and knowing that he could never meet the man.  John was torn between attempting to savour every moment, stashing away as many photos as he dared, and deleting everything in hopes that once the month was over he could forget about the man entirely.  John yawned and stretched, deciding to put the decision off for another day because he saw that there was someone at the flat across the street.

The young man was someone John hadn’t seen at the flat before, and he looked different from the usual parade of humanity that went through the front door.  He was young, blonde, fit, and dressed in jeans and a tight t-shirt.  He actually reminded John a bit of himself when he was younger.

That turned out to be a thought John wished he had never had as his target greeted the visitor with a hard kiss on the mouth, pushing him up against the door that had only just shut behind him.  John groaned as he started to reluctantly photograph the encounter.  He felt jealousy slither through him, bilious and possessive, despite knowing how little right he had to it.  The man didn’t even know John existed, so how could he know that John wanted him so badly?

And, if John thought the image of his target masturbating was going to haunt him, this, _this_ , was so much worse.  The man stripped his visitor of his shirt, only breaking their kiss for a moment before pressing their mouths and bodies back together.  John didn’t want to call what he was seeing passionate, but it _was_ rough and urgent and John wanted it.  He wanted it to be him being pushed up against the door, a long thigh between his legs, his fingers quickly unbuttoning a perfectly tailored shirt and slipping it off peaked shoulders.

He wanted it to be him, but it wasn’t, and John was forced to watch his target with this other man.  Forced to watch as his target dropped to his knees in front of him, pulling his jeans down his thighs and sinking his mouth down around a cock that wasn’t his.  No, John’s cock was decidedly not wrapped in the warm, wet heat of that gorgeous man’s mouth - his was trapped, neglected inside his jeans, and he didn’t dare to touch himself this time.  

He kept reminding himself he had a job to do.  The man was his target, his work, not his own lover or even someone he should be fantasizing about or obsessing over, not that he could stop it.

John groaned again as he zoomed in on those perfect lips stretched around the visitors stiff cock, glistening with spit, sinking down and pulling back, making his cheeks hollow out.  Jesus, he looked incredible.  John could hardly stand it, and was loathe to photograph the encounter, but he did.

John captured the way his target’s eyelashes rested against his cheeks, and the way his hands held the other man’s hips.  He froze the look of pleasure on the other man’s face and the way his fingers tangled into his target’s hair.  He caught it all while the bile rose in his throat even as his cock throbbed, thick and insistent against his thigh.  He was caught between jealous disgust at what he was seeing, and being more aroused than he ever thought possible.

When his target pulled off, his lips dark and hair perfectly tousled, John thought that maybe he was finally going to get some relief from this terrible scene.  Maybe the couple would retreat to the bedroom where he would know what was happening, but at least he wouldn’t have to watch it in high definition reality.  

Instead his target lead the other man to the window directly across from where John was sitting, pushing his front up against it before pulling a packet of lube from his pocket and tearing it open, dripping it onto his fingers.  It was clear what happened after that, even though John couldn’t directly see it -- the way the other man’s face contorted, and how his body rocked told him everything.   

It was sickeningly arousing to watch.  And it only got worse as John’s target eventually stepped back, undoing his trousers and pulling his stiff cock out, sheathing it in a condom before he stepped behind the other man.  John wanted to scream and pound on the window to make it stop, but he could also feel the wet patch staining his pants.

The height difference between his target and the other man meant that he could clearly see his target’s face and the way his mouth dropped open as he braced a hand against the glass and shifted his hips forward.  

God, how long had it been since John was with anyone?  Not since … well, John didn’t really like to think about that.  His shoulder twinged with phantom pain every time his thoughts strayed to his former CO.

John shrugged it off, his attention turning fully back to the screen on his camera, and the window across the street - the obscene display being played out for him.  It was hard to focus on just his target, which was what John wanted to do, to ignore the other man entirely, but he couldn’t when most of what he could see was that other man.  His bare torso and stiff cock, his forehead and palms pressed to the glass, and John could even see the roll of his hips as his target thrust into him.  

And his target -- John nearly fell right off his chair when he zoomed the camera back out and realized that the man was staring directly at him, right into the lens.  John couldn’t quite catch his breath after that, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.  No.  There was no way that his target knew he was there, he was probably just staring at the reflection in the glass.  That had to be it.  John had been so careful, so absolutely meticulous and completely nondescript out in public.  He was good at his job.

But, thoughts of his job and responsibility stormed out of his thoughts as he essentially locked eyes with his target in the window across the street and was flooded with need.  He just, he had to.  He couldn’t stop himself from tearing his jeans open and fisting his cock as he trained the camera on his target’s face until that was all that filled his viewscreen.  Yes, that was good, and John groaned as he watched his target pant silently, moving as he thrust hard into the other man.

John stroked himself in time with his target’s movements, hoping that he could hold out long enough under that intense gaze.  He knew it wasn’t for him, he did, but John took it anyway and let himself imagine that his target was watching him for once - getting a thrill from watching John get himself off instead of the other way around.  John’s toes curled and he moaned, slicking his thumb over the wet head of his prick as his target started to have trouble focusing, struggled to keep his eyes open.

Fuck, yes, he was going to come and John was right there with him, ready to tip over the edge as he watched his target bite into his bottom lip, likely stifling a moan.  A few more seconds and it was John’s turn to struggle to keep his eyes open, to watch as his target trembled and shook with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth trapped around a silent scream.  Maybe he did scream, but John would never hear it.  All he could hear was his own panted breaths and the broken groan that tore out of his throat as he came all over his own hand, spasming and reveling in his desperate, stolen pleasure.

It only took a few more shaking breaths before reality came crashing back down around John and he quickly photographed the two men together, a streak of come clearly visible on the pane of glass, and his target’s deft fingers wrapped around the other man’s cock.  

The sick, futile jealousy reared back up again and John was disgusted for letting himself believe for even a minute that his target knew he existed.  Clearly he had a lover already even if he _did_ know about John.  But he didn’t.  He couldn’t.  And as John cleaned himself up and watched the other man leave the flat, his target retreating toward the back of the flat, he decided that a cold shower and a re-evaluation of his situation was in order.  He just needed to convince himself that the man across the street was just a fantasy, nothing more, nothing real, nothing he could ever have.  

****  
  


* * *

 

Nearly a week after his little display and Sherlock still had his spy.  Either Mycroft was getting a thicker skin regarding the sexual antics of his little brother, or something else was going on.  He really couldn’t be sure which, and didn’t really want to attempt to confront the man.  For one, he was likely armed, and secondly, Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but he felt a sort of warmth for the spy that had possibly grown out of his attraction to him.

Something about being watched by that man in particular flipped something inside Sherlock and made him want more.  It made him flush to think about, and he found himself fantasizing often about the man behind the camera and what exactly he was doing as he watched Sherlock.  He hoped he touched himself.  Hoped that he couldn’t even resist it because watching Sherlock turned him on so much.

He was distracted by a case for nearly a week after putting on his little show that was meant to shake his tail.  A week!  Taking that long to solve a case was nearly unthinkable to Sherlock, and he knew exactly what the problem was.  It was the only thing different in his life.  His spy.   

If it _was_ Mycroft, perhaps just masturbating wasn’t enough to put him off any more, and Sherlock just needed something a bit more … noteworthy.  And maybe, Sherlock thought, maybe he could use it as an opportunity to play with his spy just a little bit.

It was only a matter of a few minutes on the internet, a phone call, a reference check, a scan of some health records and a very pretty blonde man named Will was on his way to the flat.  A very pretty blonde man who charged by the hour and certainly did not come cheaply.  It was a good thing Sherlock kept copies of all of Mycroft’s credit cards.

Sherlock found himself itching for Will’s arrival and checking, then rechecking his hair, his suit, the lube and condoms in his pocket, everything to make sure that all was in place.  It wasn’t for Will though, of course not, he was just a rentboy lucky enough to look a bit like a younger version of the man this was all really for - his spy.

As much as he wanted to have the distraction of him gone, Sherlock didn’t really want to lose his spy.  But, if he had to try to make him leave, it could at least be enjoyable, hopefully for them both, in the process.    

All of the preamble had been taken care of with the phone call, so when Will knocked on the door, there was no need for social niceties, which suited Sherlock very well.  He simply pushed the man up against the door and kissed him with every bit of pent-up frustration he had, which he found out was a lot more than he had realized.

“Easy there, big man,” Will groaned as he let Sherlock pull his shirt off over his head.

“I thought we agreed on no talking,” Sherlock whispered harshly before covering the rentboy’s mouth with his own again, shoving his tongue roughly inside it.  Will’s only answer was a soft moan as he started to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock couldn’t risk the possibility that his spy could read lips, because it was really easy enough to do, especially at such a short distance and with an undoubtedly high-powered camera lens.  He didn’t want it to be obvious that this was a manufactured encounter, not a lover or a boyfriend, and he was aiming for lover.  He didn’t necessarily want his spy to think he was completely unavailable, merely keeping up a moderately active sex life.   

Not just that, but Sherlock wanted to demonstrate his skills for his spy.  He wasn’t just a pretty face, after all, and certainly wasn’t just his brain, although it was what Sherlock prized most about himself.  But, his intellect told him that his lips, his jaw, his throat, when set to work on a stiff cock, were decidedly visually appealing.  So, Sherlock fell to his knees and pulled Will’s jeans down, revealing his already hard prick.  No pants, of course, rentboys were truly a wonder - all business.

He licked along the length of it before popping the head in his mouth and sinking down until it butted up against the back of his throat.  Will moaned and twined one hand into Sherlock’s hair, the other scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface of the door behind him.  Yes, there were very few things Sherlock set his mind to that he couldn’t become very, very good at in short order.  It also helped that Sherlock had perhaps used this particular skill more than once in his less … sober days to supplement what his allowance couldn’t afford.   

Sherlock slid his hands up to Will’s hips, holding him firmly against the door as he sucked him off, making it good, wet, so the pleasure on Will’s face was real.  Sherlock’s building pleasure was real too, but it wasn’t because of Will, even though he was certainly attractive.  No, Sherlock was busy thinking about his spy.  Would he have noticed the similarity between him and Will?  Was he watching Sherlock closely?  Seeing how good he was?

Sherlock hoped his spy was hard in his trousers already, just like Sherlock was.  Hard, and wanting, and wishing for all the world that he was with Sherlock instead of this boy.  Sherlock would happily get on his knees for his spy, but this, the thrill of being watched doing it for someone else, was almost better.  

Sherlock pulled off and dragged Will over to the window, letting him step out of his jeans on the way.  He pushed Will up against the window before fishing the lube out of his pocket and coating his fingers, pressing them between Will’s arse cheeks and slowly working them inside.  It didn’t take long before he was ready.

Sherlock rolled a condom onto himself, stepping behind Will and lining himself up, sinking into the delicious heat of him in one smooth thrust.  He curled his body over the shorter man, steadying a hand against the cool windowpane, the other gripping Will’s hip.  Oh, that felt good.  It had been a rather long time.

A slow withdrawal, then Sherlock pressed his hips forward again, groaning as he did.  God, he hoped his spy was watching.  Sherlock let his pleasure show on his face as he started to  breathe harder, his hips beating out a steady rhythm against Will’s backside.  

His spy had to be watching, he had to be.  Watching Sherlock’s sweating palm steam up the glass and the way his lips parted in a moan.  Watching Will get pressed closer to the glass with the force of Sherlock’s thrusts and his fingers dig into Will’s hip.  It turned Sherlock on so much thinking about it, and imagining what his spy might be doing as he watched.

He hadn’t planned to, but Sherlock couldn’t help gazing at the window across the street - the one that was always dark with the curtains separated just enough for a camera lens, just enough to let his spy see absolutely everything.

Sherlock shuddered hard and thrust more quickly into Will, making the man gasp and curse.  Sherlock just stared at that dark window, watching for any sign of movement, any sign that his spy was there and watching.  Maybe doing more than just watching.  Sherlock moaned at that thought, feeling his balls draw up tight as his orgasm neared.  

Just then the curtains across the way swayed ever so slightly and Sherlock was driven over the edge, fucking desperately into Will and struggling to keep his eyes locked on the window where his spy was almost certainly jerking off while he watched Sherlock.  Yes, this was good, this was very good, and all thoughts of trying to make his spy leave disappeared in the absolute pleasure of being watched by him while fucking some rentboy.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and suddenly he was coming, his eyes squeezing shut and his mouth falling open in a harsh, broken shout.  His fingers slid against the glass as his cock throbbed inside Will, spilling into the condom.  He drew in a ragged breath and slipped his hand around to stroke Will until he came too, painting the glass with it.  It was totally obscene and Sherlock revelled in it for a moment before carefully slipping himself free and discarding the condom, letting Will get dressed and showing him out.

A few minutes later, in the shower, Sherlock still couldn’t stop thinking about his spy.  He hoped he had gotten the message, noticed the similarity between him and Will, but Sherlock couldn’t be sure.  Only time would tell, and maybe Sherlock would never even see his spy again.  That _had_  been the point, he supposed.  He sighed as he rinsed off under the warm spray of the shower.  He wasn’t sure that his spy being gone was what he wanted at all, distraction or not.


	3. Chapter 3

It was two months on from the end of John’s job.  He was still in his dingy little bedsit, but his bank account had more zeros in it than it ever had before.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to move, he just hadn’t found the right place yet.  In fact, he had hardly looked.  He felt like he was stagnating, listless, even though with the money, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

That was part of the problem though, because all John wanted was to meet his last target.  He looked at the photos on his secret flash drive daily, trying to turn the man into just a very vivid masturbatory fantasy.  Some porn star perfectly fitted to John’s tastes.  It was working, but it also meant that the man was always on John’s mind.  He _dreamt_ about him for fuck’s sake.  The dreams were always silent though - John watching from a distance, never getting to touch, never getting to hear that voice even in his own subconscious.

Worse than the impending depression, and the general lack of motivation was the fact that his limp had returned.  He had barely limped the entire time he had been working as a private investigator and suddenly it was back, almost worse than when he had just returned from the war.  Had he felt this listless then?  Maybe his therapist was right and it was psychosomatic.  Whatever the cause, it was awful, and it was making him testy.

He decided that maybe a walk would do him some good, despite the limp and how angry it made him.  Staying cooped up in his tiny flat probably wasn’t doing him any good either.  He regretted it immensely when a familiar voice called out to him and he found himself having coffee with a friend from another lifetime, having to explain yet again what he was doing back in London.  Did he have any work?  And on and on in a way that made John grind his teeth just a little.  Polite conversation was never exactly his forte.

Mike’s invitation to go have a look at Bart’s was intriguing though.  John tried to convince himself that it was because he wanted to visit his old school, but deep down he knew the real reason - maybe he would run into _him_.  It would be some kind of miracle, but not impossible.  John couldn’t be blamed if he met a former target through a series of unlikely events including a happenstance meeting with an old friend.

Bart’s had changed so much since his day, and John struggled to even recognize parts of it, relying on Mike to lead him through the tangle of halls and lab spaces until they finally ended up in the room where the two of them had spent most of their time back in the day.

And that’s when John’s heart climbed up into his throat and stayed there.

_It was him_.  Oh god it was really him.  John never actually thought it would happen.  Not _really_.  It was just some hopeful little fantasy.  He wasn’t supposed to be here.  No, this wasn’t happening.  This _could not_ be happening.

John tightened his grip on his cane to steady himself.  He was starting to feel a bit light-headed.  

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” the man asked, not looking up from his elegant hunch over the microscope that John had seen so many times before.

His voice was everything John had imagined it would be.  Like liquid sex, and John knew that very instant that the right combination of tone and words could have him on his knees in whatever fashion that man wanted.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike shot back and John felt mortified.

“I prefer to text,” the man answered, sounding almost bored.

Mike patted his pockets, “Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

John was on it in an instant, fishing his phone out.  “Uh, here.  Use mine,” he said, just the barest quaver in his voice and tremble in his hand as he held out the phone.

“Oh, thank you,” the man said, finally looking right at John.  John felt like his gaze was boring a hole right down to his soul and he struggled not to flinch under it.  There was no way he knew that John had watched him for a solid month.  Seen him naked.  Watched him have sex with his lover.  He couldn’t know those things, so John had no real reason to worry.

The man took the phone from John, and John tried not to focus on the feeling of the brief contact of their fingers.  Tried not to stare as the man tapped out a text with his long, graceful fingers.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man asked, not looking up from the phone.

“Sorry?” John answered, his heart still somehow firmly lodged in his throat despite how hard it was hammering against his ribs.

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asked again, glancing up at John with those incredible, piercing eyes.

“A-Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you …” John stuttered in response, feeling completely out of his depth and floundering.

The man handed the phone back to John.  “How do you feel about the violin?” he asked.

“What?” was all John could answer.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days. Would that bother you? Flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“F-flatmates?” John was fairly sure he squeaked.  “Who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did,” the man answered.  “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly living on a military pension.  Wasn’t that difficult a leap. I’ve got a nice little place in central London, together we can afford it better.”  The man pulled on his coat and scarf, heading toward the door.  “I’ll meet you there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock.”

“I-is that it?” John questioned.  “We’ve only just met and I’m going to go look at your flat?  I don’t know where we’re meeting,” John lied.  “I don’t even know your name!” at least that one wasn’t a lie.  John had no idea who this man actually was, despite knowing achingly intimate details about his life.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street,” The man … Sherlock … said with a wink before disappearing out the door.  A wink!  John felt his heart (in both of its current locations) stop entirely.

It was a long time before John felt he had recovered even a little bit from the meeting.  He made his excuses to Mike, thanked him for the introduction, and retreated back to his bedsit to reevaluate his life.

He couldn’t actually go look at the man’s flat? Could he?  No, not the man - Sherlock.  His name was Sherlock.  John groaned and rubbed his hands over his face.  His life had suddenly gone from relatively simple (if awful) to madly complicated (but promising) in the course of an afternoon.  He could go to the flat, but still not move in, he could just say he wasn’t interested.  He didn’t actually _need_ a flatmate after all.  Not with his very large nest-egg from surveilling the very man he was now considering moving in with.

How was he going to get out of this?  And did he want to?  He knew Sherlock wasn’t available, but John could hope, couldn’t he?  Wait it out?  Become his friend and flatmate and be satisfied with just that?  John didn’t know.  His attraction to the man had only grown with meeting him, hearing his voice.  God, that voice.  John groaned again.  This was a ridiculous situation.

John couldn’t be expected to figure this shit out in basically a day.  It was so completely beyond the scope of normal experience that there wasn’t anyone he could talk to, not even in a roundabout sort of way.  There was no one and he had nothing except a hopeless crush and an invitation to make either the best or worst decision of his life, and he wouldn’t know which it was until it was all over.

 

* * *

 

Boring.  Utterly, completely, mind-destroyingly boring.  That’s what life was without his spy. It was intolerable and more than a little bit sexually frustrating if Sherlock wanted to be completely honest.  He had inadvertently gotten himself hooked on being watched by that man, just in time for him to disappear completely.

Sherlock blamed himself, really.  It was what he had been trying to do all along, because he didn’t need the distraction of the man hovering around the edges of his life.  But, now with him gone, Sherlock realized that the distraction was sorely missed.  He wasn’t quite ready to go looking for the man though.  That would be much too obvious and if Mycroft found out, which he would, eventually, Sherlock would never hear the end of it.

It was of course, then, an absolute surprise when Mike Stanford walked through the door of the lab with the man himself in tow.  Sherlock did his level best not to react, but his heart clenched tight in his chest and he added an extra drop of solution that he certainly didn’t mean to.

How could he even be here?  Was London really such a strangely small world?

The man was doing a very good job of looking nearly disinterested, if it weren’t for the sweat at his temples and his white-knuckle grip on his cane.  Funny.  Sherlock didn’t remember a cane, and he certainly would have remembered a detail that large.  But, his spy’s clear attempts to keep himself together meant that the meeting was as much a surprise to him as it was to Sherlock.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock asked casually, knowing that Mike usually kept his phone in his coat.  No coat meant no phone, meant perhaps his spy would offer his and Sherlock would have a good pretext for an introduction.

It worked, of course, and Sherlock learned that his unassuming spy had just as unassuming a name - John Watson.  He also learned that John Watson had warm hands and smelled like tea and gun oil.  

Sherlock would never admit to the showing off he did to either impress John, or run him off forever before asking him to move in, but that’s exactly what he did.  In the process he nearly lost the whole game by forgetting to mention what his address was, knowing that John knew damn well where he lived.  But they were both play acting now, weren’t they?  Playing along that they didn’t know each other - that John hadn’t followed Sherlock around for nearly a month, watched him get off, watched him fuck a man that looked just like him.  It was all far too polite, but Sherlock wanted his chance to impress John enough to keep him around now that they had been thrown back together.   

Sherlock realized there was a very good chance that whatever John had been paid for spying on him was likely enough that he didn’t really need a flatmate, but he hoped the offer was tempting.  Sherlock’s lifestyle had the adventure and danger that John seemed to enjoy, and Sherlock wanted him around again.

It was more than a little bit baffling.  Sherlock had never really desired the company of another human being, but for some reason he found himself drawn to this John Watson, private investigator and former soldier.  He was strangely normal, which should have been infuriating, but it wasn’t.  Maybe it was because Sherlock knew what he chose to do for a living, or maybe it was something else entirely.  

The feeling that he didn’t know _why_ he wanted to keep John around sat at the back of his mind like a desperately annoying itch.  He hoped that John decided to move in with him so he could figure it out.  He _had_ to figure it out or he was going to go mad from it.  Not knowing the answer was nearly as bad as the crushing boredom he had endured lately.

Sherlock certainly wasn’t bored after the unexpected encounter with his spy.  He was nearly brimming with excitement at the prospect of having him around again, and needing to dance around the fact he knew exactly what John had been doing.  He needed to decide just how he was going to confront John, but he was getting ahead of himself.  There was still the very real possibility that John would say no to the offer and disappear from his life again.

When the time rolled around for John to show up, Sherlock steeled himself for the possible rejection.  There was no guarantee that John would stay, and after that, no guarantee that Sherlock would be able to figure out what it was about him that he was so drawn to.  There were a lot of variables.

John knocked on the door right on time and Sherlock did his best to smile and be on his best behaviour, even though he knew that John was likely aware that his ‘best behaviour’ was a rarity.  It couldn’t hurt to attempt to act like a normal human being for a little while, or just long enough for John to say yes to moving in.  

He shook John’s hand and tried not to linger on the contact, and went up the stairs first so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare at John’s arse.  It was clearly not just a physical attraction though, as it felt very much like something more, something different.  It was a lot stronger now having actually met John in person, instead of thinking about him in the abstract.  The question was if the feeling would last, or if he was only interested in John as his spy.

 

* * *

 

“This could be very nice,” John heard himself say before he was entirely certain that those were the words he wanted.  Being inside Sherlock’s flat, even without his raging indecision, was like some sort of out of body experience for John.  He had seen the flat every day for a month, but nothing more than what he could see from across the street.  Now he was actually inside of it.  Seeing in full detail all the mess and strangeness and wonder of where this man lived.

It was like Sherlock’s mind spilled out around him in an order that likely only he could see, and the kitchen was frankly terrifying, but John was too intrigued to let that bother him.  And Sherlock, a man John had never seen pick up so much as an empty mug, was _tidying_ , saying he could of course make space for John.  It was adorable to see him clearly trying so hard to be likeable, but of course John had already fallen for the strange, antisocial man he had seen from across the way.

That decided it for John.  He couldn’t say no.  He couldn’t give up the opportunity to be close to Sherlock, even if it was never in a romantic way, John could handle that.  He was sure he could, and it would be nice to spend time with someone who understood the appeal of an unusual lifestyle.  

It was a risk in any number of ways.  If his former employer found out, well, he wasn’t even sure what could happen if they did, and what if Sherlock found out that he had been John’s job?  No one likes being spied on.  There was also the chance that John would just fall more and more in love with Sherlock until he couldn’t handle it.  John just hoped it would be worth all the risk.

He moved in the next day, and within 48 hours John found himself working as Sherlock’s new assistant of sorts.  Following him on cases and providing his opinion, even though Sherlock was just as likely to call him an idiot as he was to praise him for leading to some sort of insight.  It was exhilarating and John didn’t even need his cane any more.  Sherlock’s strange life, and the near constant presence of danger suited John like nothing else.  He thought that Sherlock suited him like nothing else too, but he kept that thought between himself and his flash drive that he kept hidden under his mattress.  

Sherlock’s lover hadn’t shown up yet, but Sherlock had shown zero interest in anyone who wasn’t a corpse in nearly a month of living together.  John just presumed that it was maybe a long-distance thing, or they met when John wasn’t around, which did happen from time to time.  He hadn’t taken any other work though, because Sherlock’s was proving to be enough for both of them.  

John tried to stop looking at the photos, especially now that he could look at the real thing nearly every day.  But he couldn’t.  The attraction was too strong, and it was too easy for John to separate the man in the photos and the Sherlock he spent his days with.  The man in the photos was all his, always there, always silent, and forever aroused and arousing.  Sherlock was a man, with faults and moods and even though John could listen to his voice forever, it wasn’t nearly as appealing when it was shouting that the man behind it was bored.

It was a lot easier to turn all of his fantasies toward the man in the photos.  Not that he wasn’t still mad for Sherlock, but he was off limits, and John had to do something with his feelings.  It was better for everyone if he kept them separate - the man that was all his, and the man he could never have.

 


	4. Chapter 4

John walked through the door to the flat and felt the life drain out of him.  He swayed on his feet, his grip on the doorknob the only thing keeping him upright as his stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat as his heart crashed to a stop.

“Care to explain, John?” Sherlock asked casually as he turned where he was standing in the centre of the sitting room -- the room currently plastered in prints of John’s photos from his secret flash drive.  Every wall was covered in them.  They lay scattered on the floor and the coffee table and Sherlock was standing calmly in the middle of John’s personal nightmare.

John shut the door behind him, resisting the urge to turn and run.  “Sherlock, I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?  Think I would find out? Didn’t _mean_ to?” Sherlock picked up a particularly damning photo, considering the image of himself before turning it to show John.  “Because it all looks fairly deliberate to me.”

“I … it’s not what,” John stumbled over his words, completely at a loss for how to explain this.  How to explain dozens of pornographic, or near pornographic images of his now flatmate, taken without his knowledge and certainly without his consent.  “You were a job!” he eventually blurted out.  

Sherlock just hummed an arched an eyebrow, picking up another photograph off the coffee table.  “ _This_ , was work?” he asked, showing it to John.  

The photo was one of John’s favourites, even though it was by far the least explicit of the photos that papered the room.  It was Sherlock playing the violin - his neck stretched, corded muscles taut, and his face framed with those gorgeous dark curls.  His eyes were closed, lashes shadowing his cheeks, and a look of quiet ecstasy on his face as he cradled his violin under his chin.  He would have looked angelic if it wasn’t so sinful.  

John wasn’t sure anymore if Sherlock had looked like that in the moment, or if he only looked so preternaturally attractive because of the thoughts John had while he was taking the photo - like he had somehow imbued it with an air of the illicit in the very act of taking it.

“And this one?” Sherlock selected another.

John groaned and had to shut his eyes for a moment.  It was Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his stiff prick, cropped so close as to make the man himself entirely unrecognizable.  Of course it wasn’t to John.  John would know Sherlock’s hands at a glance.  His cock too, but John was less willing to admit that.

John still couldn’t answer.  He had no answer.  He’d been caught red-handed with moments he’d stolen from Sherlock and was being confronted with every completely inappropriate thought he’d had about him and those photos.  His anxiety was absolutely through the roof and there was nothing he could do about it.  Sherlock would tell him off, kick him out, hate him for the rest of time, and would probably destroy the photos and the flash drive as well, just to make everything that much worse.

“What information, exactly, were you hired to find out about me?  Because I’m having a hard time parsing these pictures into anything that would be even remotely relevant, unless you were asked to report on my physical appearance and sexual activity.  Were you, John?” Sherlock asked, seemingly in all seriousness.

“No,” John answered, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think so,” Sherlock smiled viciously, “I mean, really, why would you follow me to a crime scene if you were only interested in my sex life?”

Sherlock turned to let the photos fall back to the coffee table, clearly pleased with himself while John’s anxious mind latched on to what Sherlock had just said.  Something wasn’t right about it - something big - if only he could figure out what it was.

Suddenly, it clicked.  “None of these photos were taken before I tailed you to a crime scene,” John said, confident in his own recollections.  

Sherlock stilled where he stood.

“Did you … did you _know_ I was watching you?” John asked, almost incredulously.

“Well, eventually, of course.  I’m not an idiot, John,” Sherlock turned, giving John an accusatory glare.

“You knew!” John said, “You knew the whole time!”  It was an absolute revelation, not to mention a relief.  Sherlock had _known_ and still not done a single thing to stop John from watching him.  Didn’t close a curtain, didn’t retreat out of view.  No, Sherlock had put himself on full display.

Another revelation hit as John worked through the past with his new knowledge.  “You _liked_ it, didn’t you?” He took a step toward Sherlock, gaining confidence that it wasn’t just him alone behind the camera being turned on.  Sherlock was a willing participant - maybe even eager, and John hadn’t violated him, he’d given Sherlock something he wanted.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but the way he had gone a bit pale, his eyes wide and dark, his throat working to swallow, John didn’t need an answer to know that he was right.

“You liked it and you wanted me to move in with you.  You wanted to find out if I kept any photos.  You wanted this,” John gestured broadly to the room.  “Why, Sherlock?  What were you hoping would happen?”

“I don’t … I didn’t …” Sherlock stuttered.  John had successfully turned the tables on him and now Sherlock was the one squirming on the spot, unable to give any kind of answer that wasn’t deeply incriminating.

Sherlock’s floundering made John even bolder.  “Show me,” John said, his voice quiet but insistent, sincere.  “I want to watch.  Like the first time.”

“Y-you want to …”

“Watch you.  Please?”

Sherlock took a quivering, audible breath, but otherwise remained where he was standing, stock still and looking more than a little bit stunned.

John sat in what had quickly become his chair, directly across from where Sherlock preferred to sit.  He cleared his throat and got comfortable, both feet flat on the floor.  Sherlock stood there blinking for another moment, maybe deciding what he wanted to do, or maybe just processing the sudden turn of events, John couldn’t be sure.  But, either way Sherlock eventually sat down across from John and started to undo his trousers.

John licked his lips as he watched.  Today had gone from utter agony to ecstasy in the space of a few minutes and it was so, so exciting.  Sherlock was excited too, judging by how hard he already was when he pulled himself out.  John couldn’t help the small groan that slipped past his lips.

Sherlock’s breath caught as he stroked himself slowly, his hips arching into it, and John had to dig his fingers into the armrests of his chair to cope.  God, it was amazing.  Being this close, being able to finally _hear_ Sherlock was incredible, but John itched to touch him.  He wanted to just reach out and wrap his own hand around Sherlock’s cock, or climb into his lap and frot against him until they both came.  But, that wasn’t what Sherlock wanted.  He wanted to be watched, so that’s what John would give him.

“That’s it,” John said quietly, “just like that.”

Sherlock moaned and let his head fall against the back of the chair, his hand moving a bit quicker over himself.  John was breathing heavily, his own stiff cock straining inside of his jeans, but he was determined not to touch himself.  This wasn’t as much about him as it was about giving Sherlock what he wanted -- which was an audience.  And John was more than happy to be that audience.

“Good, Sherlock.  God, look at you,” John breathed.

“John,” Sherlock whined, jerking himself off faster, the head of his cock shining with precome.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” John reassured.  “Open your eyes.”

Sherlock groaned as he did, and John shifted under his gaze.  Sherlock could undoubtedly see how turned on John was watching him, even though he wasn’t touching himself, it was very clear.  He wanted Sherlock to see, to know that watching him made him hard.  It turned John on even more knowing that Sherlock was doing this for him, that he _had_ been doing it for him all along.

Sherlock tightened his grip, his hand moving faster as his breathing sped up while John locked eyes with him, his gaze dropping briefly to Sherlock’s cock and then back again.  “Are you going to come?” John nearly whispered, not wanting to break the tension that hung thick and expectant in the air.

“O-oh,” Sherlock gasped, then gave a shuddering moan as he bit his plush bottom lip and came, making a mess of his shirt and his hand.

John groaned and feared he was going to tear straight through the upholstery of his chair as he gripped the armrests hard enough to hurt.  He watched Sherlock pant as his orgasm washed over him, and slowly subsided.

“Th-thank you,” John said awkwardly, getting up stiffly from his chair and all but running to his room.  He hadn’t thought things through this far.  He didn’t know what to say to Sherlock after watching that, after being so turned on he could hardly breathe.  

When John got to the safety of his room he dropped to his knees and nearly tore the button off his jeans as he struggled to get them open.  His prick throbbed in his hand and he came in seconds, his vision almost blacking out with the intensity of it.  He slumped to the floor, panting, as his head cleared, wondering just what he had done.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat stunned and covered in his own come, reflecting on what had just happened.  How did he end up here when his confrontation had started off so well - so deliciously dramatic that it had John quaking at the door - and now … _this_.  John had turned everything back on him, discovered his predilection almost faster than Sherlock himself had and given him exactly what he wouldn’t ask for.  It was stunning, mind-boggling, and … and dead sexy.

John had run off so quickly that Sherlock hadn’t even had a chance to tell him to stay, to say that he would return the favour, if John wanted, whatever that meant.  Sherlock wanted to touch or be touched, but maybe that’s not what John wanted out of this.  Maybe John only wanted to watch him.  Well, Sherlock supposed he could work with that, but first he would have to clean himself up … and maybe the sitting room.

John didn’t come down from his room until later that night, and Sherlock barely looked up from his microscope when he did, choosing to let John take the lead on what was going to be their interactions following what was very much outside of _normal_.  John didn’t say a word to him, but a cup of tea was set down by his elbow.  Ahh, a prompt return to the status quo, then.  Sherlock was glad he had taken down the photos and left them and the flash drive as a sort of offering outside of John’s door.

But, Sherlock realized he couldn’t be satisfied with their previous arrangement now that he’d had a taste of John watching him again.  It brought every thrill and every bit of excitement he’d had while John was his spy rushing back to him and he just couldn’t leave it at that.

Sherlock had a plan, he simply stopped closing doors.  While he showered, while he changed clothes, while he had an unmistakably loud wank one evening, he did it all with doors wide open hoping that John would get the hint and watch him.  It seemed to be to no avail though and Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated by the day.

Everything else was proceeding as it had before Sherlock had confronted John, though.  They still went on cases together, and John still pestered Sherlock to eat, to not keep body parts in the fridge, and all of their usual business.  John didn’t comment on Sherlock’s new inability to shut a door behind him, but he never mentioned the confrontation either.

Sherlock was convinced for a while that John had decided to ignore the entire thing, to never be mentioned again.  That is, until he found something in his room -- something incredibly intriguing and not nearly as well hidden as it should have been.  Sherlock nearly passed out with how quickly all of his blood rushed to fill out his erection, and he had to steady himself against his dresser to keep from crumbling to the floor.

It was a camera.  More specifically it was a wireless, web-enabled camera that John could watch from his laptop or phone.  Anywhere, anytime, John could be watching.

Sherlock’s head swam.  His cock throbbed.  Oh god it was absolutely genius.  Sherlock felt his attraction to John grow tenfold.  He seemed to know exactly what Sherlock wanted, and somehow was able to keep surprising him like no one else ever had.

Sherlock stripped immediately, stretching himself out on his bed, making sure he was positioned perfectly for the camera before he wrapped his fingers around his cock.  Ohh yes, that was exactly what he needed.  Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not John was watching right that moment.  Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, or maybe he had set it up to record so he could go through the footage later and never miss a single moment.  

Sherlock groaned - it was so incredibly arousing to even _think_ of John watching him that it was hard to hold back.  He was ready to come within a minute or two, but he held off, gulping air and squeezing the base of his cock until he came back from the brink.  Then he did it again, and again, driving himself right to the edge and then pulling back at the very last second until he was sweating through the sheets, panting, the head of his cock nearly purple it was so swollen.

And then he let go.  He let himself tumble off the edge, thinking the whole time about John watching him, John getting off on watching him, John fucking him ... John, John John.  He came hard, his whole body shuddering with it, and his breath trapped in his lungs as muscles convulsed.  It was so incredibly intense - almost as good as when John had been in the room.  God, he wanted that again, that and more, but this was a very interesting, close second.

Except Sherlock was torn.  Should he tell John that he found the camera?  It would be obvious though, wouldn’t it?  But, if John was only watching live there was a chance that their timing would never match up -- that John would never actually see Sherlock, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

Like any problem, Sherlock decided to think on it a while, but days passed and he still didn’t have a clear answer.  John’s behaviour wasn’t helping because he seemed to still be playing the ignorance game, choosing to totally disregard the fact that anything had changed or that he had put a (very obvious) camera in Sherlock’s room.

There was nothing for it, Sherlock was going to have to _do_ something.  But what that something was going to be was going to require more thought.  It had to be obvious that even John couldn’t ignore it, but not so much that it would blow past whatever boundaries John had.  Sherlock wanted to keep him around, not run him off forever, but it still wasn’t clear to Sherlock what John wanted out of this.

 

* * *

 

John had never been more confused or conflicted in his life than he was living with Sherlock.  It was torturous and divine, and he didn’t know how to steer it in the direction of the latter on a permanent basis.

After Sherlock had attempted to confront him, things had gotten weird.  Sherlock seemed to lose all boundaries and John had to fight against his instincts to hover in every open doorway and just watch Sherlock as he went about his business.  John just couldn’t do that to himself.  It was already driving him crazy being so close to him, knowing that Sherlock wanted him to watch, but John already wanted more than that.  

John wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to be with him and have it mean something more than just getting off.  He just didn’t think that was what Sherlock wanted though, even though it had become reasonably clear that his lover wasn’t around anymore.  And it wasn’t like John didn’t want to keep watching him, the urge was stronger than ever, but he would lose himself entirely if he had to be so close to Sherlock again and not touch him.  

That’s how he came up with the camera.  It was the distance John needed, and what Sherlock wanted.  It was a compromise that would keep him a functioning human being instead of a quivering ball of _want_ on a daily basis, who was one step away from doing something he would sorely regret and losing Sherlock forever.

John wasn’t surprised when Sherlock found the camera within hours of him installing it, but he expected some push-back.  A haughty text message about his inability to hide a camera, for instance, but instead he got nearly an hour of Sherlock splayed out on his bed having an absolutely incredible wank.  He didn’t realize that Sherlock had been quite so desperate for John to watch him, but apparently he was.

And it just got worse from there. It seemed like Sherlock was bound and determined to take up every spare moment of John’s time by being as distracting as possible.  It was like he was constantly in front of that camera when he wasn’t actually with John, and when they _were_ together both of them were still acting as though nothing had changed.

John tried to stay out of the house more, even picked up some work just to get some distance from Sherlock, and have the excuse to be physically away from him.  But, even that was hopeless.  Sherlock had somehow figured out how to switch the feed from the camera to motion sense, which would alert to John’s phone with still images every time it was activated.  John was just enough of an idiot to not turn his phone off entirely.

Every time John was out of the house he was barraged with images from the camera.  Sometimes it was innocuous -- just Sherlock moving through his room -- but most of the time it was much, much more.  John’s phone was filled with images of Sherlock now in various states of undress, and in a multitude of positions, with and without toys.  

He managed to ignore it all enough to not disrupt their tenuous sort of friendship -- that was until he was out getting a few groceries one day.  His phone pinged in his pocket, and he pulled it out, a still image of Sherlock in his dressing gown lying in bed.  But, John noticed after a moment, it wasn’t Sherlock’s bed, it was his own.  John looked around a moment, making sure no one was standing too near him before he logged in to access the camera’s live feed.  By then Sherlock had shrugged out of his dressing gown and was kneeling on John’s bed.

John nearly groaned out loud, his basket full of groceries all but forgotten at his feet as he watched Sherlock bend over, hugging one of John’s pillows to his chest.  Sherlock reached back to stroke himself, his back arched and arse toward the camera.  John’s pulse raced as he watched.  There was something about Sherlock being in _his_ bed that made things … different.  It was more like an invitation than anything Sherlock had done before and this time John couldn’t refuse it.

_If you make a mess of my sheets, so help me, Sherlock_.  John texted, quickly flipping back to the feed on his phone.  He watched Sherlock rifle through his discarded dressing gown until he found his phone and tapped out a one-handed response.

_So help you what? You’re not here to stop me._

_No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make you pay for it later_. John texted back.  He was the one being bold now, but seeing Sherlock in his room, on his bed, the pillow that he slept on each night pressed tight to Sherlock’s chest - it drove his desire through the roof.

_Tell me how_. Sherlock’s next message read.

John couldn’t do this standing in the middle of the produce aisle any longer.  He found the store loos and quickly locked himself inside, leaning back against the door as he watched Sherlock on his bed, phone in one hand, and the other slowly stroking his stiff prick.  John only had to consider what he was going to text back for a moment -- he’d thought about it too many times to need much time to think about.

_If you make a mess of my sheets, Sherlock, I’m going to find you the second I walk in the door and bend you over the nearest surface.  I don’t care if it’s the kitchen table, or your bed, or the sofa, but I’m going to bend you over and strip you naked._

_And?_  Sherlock prompted.  John could see in the feed that Sherlock was stroking himself faster now.  Oh god, he was getting off on this.  John had to adjust himself in his trousers, because watching Sherlock, knowing that he was getting off on what John was texting, was all kinds of arousing.

_And then I’m going to open you up, Sherlock, and I’m not going to be gentle about it.  I want to watch my fingers disappear inside of you.  Watch you buck and moan as I hold you down._

_God, yes._

John groaned out load at Sherlock’s response, and at the way he was squirming on his bed, jerking himself off in quick, long strokes.  John seriously hoped that Sherlock wasn’t just somehow winding him up.  He wanted this.  Badly.  He wasn’t sure he could handle it if Sherlock didn’t actually want it too.  This seemed like a turning point though, so John figured if he was in for a penny, he was in for a pound.

_Then I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel it for days, and I’m going to come inside you.  I’m not going to let you come, though.  Maybe not for five minutes, maybe not for an hour.  It all depends if you’re good for me Sherlock, and hold yourself open so I can take pictures of my come leaking out of you so I can look at your arsehole all stretched and red and full of me anytime I want._

John’s heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest as he hit send.  There was every chance in the world that Sherlock would be utterly repulsed, or disinterested, or anything other than on board with what John wanted to do to him.  Sherlock could easily just turn off the camera, leave whatever this was unfinished.

Sherlock didn’t respond, but it wasn’t for any of the reasons John feared -- it was because he was coming hard all over John’s sheets, his body visibly shaking with it and his face pressed into John’s pillow.  It was gorgeous ... and promising.

Sherlock got off of the bed, swaying a little on his feet as we walked to the camera, grinning into it before he switched it off. _Is that a threat, or a promise?_ Sherlock’s next text read, and John immediately forgot the shopping, unlocking the loo door and nearly running out of the shop to get home.  To get to Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was an announcement or a warning when John slammed the door behind him when he got home.  It was doubtful that John was actually angry with him, likely just amped up, ready for a confrontation with Sherlock that was a long, long time coming.  Every bit of pent-up frustration was probably bubbling to the surface and Sherlock bet that John was absolutely itching to let him have it.

“Ahh, John, you’re…” Sherlock started casually from his spot at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope, but John cut him off, grabbing the collar of his dressing gown and the t-shirt beneath it, and hauling him backward off his chair, and forcing him down onto the tabletop.  Note papers and glassware scattered everywhere, but by some sort of miracle, nothing actually broke.  Sherlock had made sure that nothing on the table was dangerously corrosive, just in case John had actually meant what he said in his texts.

It had barely been forty-five minutes since Sherlock had come hard, rocking and shivering on John’s bed, but his cock was already starting to fill out again as John pressed him into the table.  

“It was a promise,” John whispered huskily in Sherlock’s ear, still holding a fistful of his clothes.  Sherlock felt his blood rush, quick, hot, and needy through his veins.  Yes, yes this was what he wanted.  John watching him was amazing, but John touching him was going to be electric, he could already tell.

“This is going to be simple, Sherlock, because I know what a defiant little exhibitionist shit you are.  I’m going to let you up, and if it’s a yes, you’re going to take your clothes off for me.  If it’s a no, just leave.”  With that John released his shirt and the heat and weight of him was gone.

Sherlock straightened up slowly and turned to face John, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and a bulge in his trousers.  There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation before Sherlock shrugged off his dressing gown, grabbing the hem of his shirt to pull it off over his head.

“Slower,” John rasped, and Sherlock obeyed, peeling his shirt off slowly before letting it drop to the floor.  He pushed his pyjama bottoms off his hips and they puddled at his feet.  John watched him intently, his eyes raking over Sherlock’s increasingly naked body.  Sherlock was completely hard by the time he peeled his pants off, standing warm and aroused in front of John - because of John.

“Stay right there,” John said, and Sherlock nodded as he swallowed thickly.  This was very exciting.  He kicked his pile of clothes away, and shifted on his feet as he listed to John climb the stairs to his room, then descend again a few moments later.

Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at the camera in John’s hand expectantly.  It was almost certainly the same one that had been set up across the street while John was his spy, and the same one that captured the images he had printed out and plastered the living room with.  A shiver of pleasure worked its way through Sherlock, culminating in a twitch of his cock that sent a bead of precome driping down his shaft.

John watched it happen, then raked his eyes back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze.  Sherlock felt himself flush at how utterly _obvious_ he was and how easily John had figured him out.  It was embarrassing, but somehow even more arousing because of it.

John stepped into Sherlock’s space, reaching up with his free hand to skate his fingers over Sherlock’s jaw, then to the nape of his neck, where he gripped hard, suddenly forcing Sherlock back down onto the table.  Sherlock had the air forced out of his lungs in a breathy whine.

Sherlock couldn’t help but moan when John put the camera down right by his head, right in his sightline, then slid his hand from the nape of Sherlock’s neck to between his shoulder blades, holding him firmly against the table.  

John was quiet, but Sherlock could hear how rough his breathing was and feel the warmth of his body - he clearly wanted this as much as Sherlock did.  Then, suddenly, John had a slick finger pressed up against Sherlock’s arsehole and was pushing it forward insistently, making Sherlock moan out.

“That’s it,” John breathed, twisting his finger inside Sherlock, starting to work a second inside with it.

Sherlock gasped and groaned, trying to buck back against John’s fingers, but John was holding him down too hard to make much progress.  “John,” he moaned out, feeling the burning stretch in his arse.

“I told you I wasn’t going to be gentle, Sherlock.  If you had behaved yourself, maybe I would have taken it easier with you,” John said quietly, giving his two fingers a vicious twist that set Sherlock’s nerves on edge in a way that he wasn’t sure was pleasant or painful.

“If I had behaved myself, would you be here right now?” Sherlock countered, regretting his snark immediately as John dragged his fingers against his prostate, making him wail.

“You could have told me you wanted this,” John said, scissoring his fingers inside of Sherlock, loosening his tight muscles.

“I thought I was being very … explicit,” Sherlock moaned with a smirk that John couldn’t see, but could probably hear.

“Shameless more like it.  Jesus, just look at you.”

John’s words sparked straight down Sherlock’s spine, and he felt himself clench around his fingers.  Having John’s focus on him was incredible, and felt almost as good as his fingers inside of him, pressing and pulling against his insides.

Then John’s fingers were gone and Sherlock heard the rasp of his zipper, then the blunt head of his cock against his hole.  “You just need every ounce of my attention, don’t you?  That’s what you really need,” John groaned as he forced himself into Sherlock’s tightness.

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and pain flared up for a moment, but quickly subsided as John pressed up fully against him.  Yes, that was good, so good.  It had been much too long, and John was just who he wanted.  His spy.  Finally.

“Fuck you’re tight,” John panted above him, running both hands over Sherlock’s back, taking a still moment inside of him.

“J-just fuck me” Sherlock stuttered, “please!”  He was starting to feel overwhelmed, his head spinning and his cock throbbing untouched between his legs.  He felt so full of John.

John didn’t answer, just gripped Sherlock’s hips hard and started to thrust into him with abandon, breathing hard and giving short, panted moans as he did.  “You look gorgeous taking my cock, Sherlock.  Incredible.  Better than I imagined.  Can’t wait to see you full of my come.”

Sherlock groaned, scrabbling for purchase against the top of the table, and only managing to knock an old cup of tea over, sending the liquid spilling onto the floor, the mug crashing after it. John didn’t relent, just fucked into Sherlock over and over until his thrusts started to lose their rhythm.

“F-fuck,” John cursed, giving one final, forceful thrust into Sherlock, burying himself completely before he came with a groan.  Sherlock moaned at the feeling - the warmth and wetness pulsing inside of him, even as his own bollocks ached for release.

John reached over for the camera and Sherlock practically whimpered.  “You remember what I want?” John said, his voice sounding rough.

Sherlock didn’t answer, just reached back with trembling hands to his arse cheeks.

“Good, very good, Sherlock,” John said, sliding his softening cock free, taking a step back as Sherlock spread himself as wide as he could manage.  

After that, all he could hear was the near-constant click of the shutter of John’s camera, and his own ragged breaths.  All he could feel was the empty, grasping twitches of his arsehole, and the slow, ticklish slide of John’s come leaking out of him.

“Jesus,” John sighed behind him, “that’s perfect, Sherlock.  Perfect.”

Sherlock gave an absolutely pained moan at that.  He had wanted John’s attention for so long, and now he had all of it.  He could _feel_ John’s gaze on him, and it made his skin buzz with excitement, and his cock positively throb.  “Please,” he moaned.

John just clicked his shutter off a few more times.  “No,” he said calmly.

Of course he was calm.  Of course!  He had come already.  Wasn’t left needy and wanting and completely desperate.  Gagging for it would be an accurate description.  Sherlock groaned again, pressing his forehead into the table - he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last under John’s scrutiny and the insistent click of his camera shutter.  It was driving him ‘round the bend, and it would be _so_ easy just to reach down and stroke himself.

Before Sherlock could contemplate it any further, John was beside him, showing him the viewscreen of the camera.  “Look at yourself,” John said, and Sherlock did.  He could hardly help it as John scrolled through photo after photo of him.  Many were centered, as John had promised, on his arse - reddened, wet, and leaking John’s come while Sherlock’s fingers dug deep divots into his flesh.  

But, there were more.  There was Sherlock’s fingers stretched out amongst the chaos of the table, there were his calves and ankles tensed, and there was his spine, arched and catlike, showing Sherlock exactly what John saw when he looked at him.

Sherlock whined.  He looked beautiful.   _Was_ beautiful to John, not just sexy or alluring, but something that went beyond what Sherlock’s body looked like to who he was inside.  It put Sherlock into near meltdown, unable to process his burning arousal and the sudden revelation that John was probably in love in with him … and that maybe he was in love with John too.  It would explain a lot, really.

“You can touch yourself now,” John nearly whispered as he stepped away again.

Oh god it was heaven.  Sherlock gripped himself tight and stroked himself in long, full strokes.  He was wet and sensitive and really just needed the barest shove over the edge, which came with another click of John’s shutter, and John’s hand trailing lightly down his back.

He gasped, filling his lungs with air, as he felt the rest of him fill to bursting with John’s quiet utterance of “gorgeous” before all of him spun out into white hot pleasure.  

He wasn’t sure if he moaned or screamed, or made no sound at all, but his throat felt ragged, and his entire body was still twitching, shivering with amazing little aftershocks when he floated back to himself.  Then, John was wrapping his arms around him, pulling him up off the table and turning him around.  

Sherlock was still in a daze when John kissed him.  A small, chaste kiss on the mouth before John seemed to suddenly shy away and attempted to flee for a second time.  Sherlock reached out and caught his arm though, pulling him back and kissing him properly.  “Stay,” Sherlock rasped, “you’re not running away from me ever again.”

“Really?” John questioned.  “This,” he gave a vague gesture between them, “this is what you really want?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock answered.  “The camera can stay though,” he added quickly, making John laugh.  “I suppose I’ll have to send Mycroft a muffin basket or something for hiring you in the first place, although I doubt this was his intention.”

“Mycroft?” John asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“My brother.  The one who hired you to spy on me?”

“Oh, I never met my employer.  It was all dead drops, throw-away emails, and some sort of off-shore account that paid me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I don’t know who they were, so I guess it could have been your brother.”

“No,” Sherlock answered gravely, “no that absolutely would not be him.”  Sherlock felt his mind whirr back into action.

Sherlock must have looked a bit off, because John had his concerned but confused face on, asking, “is that bad?”

“Oh, quite possibly.  Perhaps even lethal if they know you’re here.” Sherlock could feel himself getting a bit manic, a bit too excited about the possibility of some secretive criminal paying large sums of money to find out about him.

“Jesus,” John said.

Sherlock only hummed in response, grabbing John by both shoulders and giving him a hard kiss on the mouth before pacing away, his mind already leaping ahead, making connections, synapses firing at lightning speed.  “Tell me everything you know.  There’s no detail too small, too insignificant.”

“Well,” John paused for a moment, and Sherlock tried not to stalk back over and shake the information out of him.  “Oh.  One of the emails was signed ‘M’ once.” John offered.

“M! Excellent! More, John, I need more.”

John sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I’ll give you everything I know, Sherlock, but can you at least put some pants on please?  You’re very … distracting.”

“Pants! Who needs pants when the game is on, John!” Sherlock grinned.  Oh yes, this new life with John was going to be excellent.  Absolutely excellent, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small note on the plot: I didn’t think this through, I just wanted rampant voyeurism. But yeah, it was probably Moriarty.
> 
> A big thank you to my beta-reader [Liz!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily)

**Author's Note:**

> [Don't forget to follow me on Tumblr.](http://sexxicawrites.tumblr.com/)


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